Mariposa: A Tale of Tattoos and Temptation
by Nocuous Notions
Summary: (Angel or Devil) Or, a love story between two people who don't believe in love. Rating may be changed to M later.
1. Chapter 1

I have a pretty good idea of what I want it to look like. Luminescent skyscrapers reach greedily for the sepia-tone sky, windows flashing like Morse code. Each building will be a different color: indigo, cerulean, fuchsia, goldenrod. A dazzling architectural rainbow.

Unfortunately, this sketch I have just drawn looks nothing like that.

I feel my mouth twist into a scowl, my nose wrinkle. I didn't notice when I was drawing it. Every inch of my body and neuron in my brain was focused on the press of graphite to paper, lines flowing from the tip controlled by my fingers. When I'm drawing- or painting, for that matter- nothing can distract me. I don't care about whether what I'm drawing is "good"- not until I finish the last line and snap back to myself.

I tear out the paper and crumple it into a ball, then get up to pull the plug-in fan closer. It's stinking hot in here because the air conditioning's been broken since I moved in about four years ago. I'm currently in my underwear (and socks, because bare feet make me uncomfortable), and I'm still cloaked in sweat. I close my eyes as I hold the fan up to my sticky neck and let out a sigh.

"I thought it wasn't half-bad."

My eyes snap open- and I freeze. In front of me is a stunningly gorgeous man who makes my fingers itch for my paintbrush. Rich caramel skin with scintillatingly cerulean hair, falling gracefully to an inch above his shoulders. He's wearing a robe the color of fresh blood, baring one bronzed, tattooed shoulder. Another tattoo sprawls brazenly across his right cheekbone. His crimson eyes sparkle as his mouth twitches into a crooked, lazy grin. He would be a perfect model.

And then I notice the batlike wings stretching from his back and the silver-black horns curling up from his head, and I realize his feet aren't touching the ground.

And then I remember that I'm in my underwear.

I slowly put the fan down and rise to my feet. "The sketch?" My voice rasps. "It was crap."

He chuckles.

I feel like I should be shocked or horrified or _something_. Maybe I should be screaming or trying to get away or throwing things at him. But the situation is just too weird. It's so weird I default to acting normal, like this kind of thing happens to me every day.

He's watching me with those glittering eyes. After I stare at him for a second, he smiles again. "I'm Diaval. Yes, the wings are real." His voice is deep and smooth like melted butter. "I guess you could call me a demon."

"A demon?" I echo. I've never really believed in that kind of thing, but it's hard to deny that something exists when the evidence is literally staring me in the face. I shake my head to myself. "I'm Naomi."

"I know your name, babe."

Babe?

Diaval lands on my cluttered apartment floor and approaches me slowly, that half-smile of his never wavering. He curls a hand around my cheek. His touch is electric; my skin sings in response, blood rushing to my face. "Any guesses why I'm here?" he says in a low voice. Those mesmerizing eyes hold me captive. I can't look away.

I shake my head slightly. My heart won't settle down. It's not like I see guys this attractive every day, demons or no. "I'd guess you're here to make me pay for my sins," I manage.

His eyes widen. "Sins?"

I shrug. "Isn't that what demons are supposed to do?" I still can't peel my eyes away from that gorgeous face of his.

After a second, he smiles again, stroking my cheek with his warm fingertips. I shiver. "You don't need to worry about that," he says softly, his breath tickling my lips. "Relax." Slowly, he moves in closer.

Panic suddenly seizes me. _This is too familiar._

My hand flies up and strikes his cheek.

He flinches back. I stare at my palm, dumbstruck. Typically I'm not a violent person, but… it was like I moved without thinking.

"Sorry," I say, lifting my gaze back to his. My eyes flicker to the rapidly reddening mark on his cheek, and I can't help but wince a little. I hit him that hard?

"Feisty," he mutters.

"I've been called worse."

The corner of his mouth quirks up.

"We'll take it from here, Diaval," a voice from behind him cuts in.

My head jerks to the side. Two more men are now in my apartment. One of them is clearly meant to be an angel- provided this whole thing isn't some paint-induced hallucination. Creamy white wings unfold from his back, and he's wearing robes the color of eggshells. His lips are pressed tightly together, his eyes screaming disapproval.

The other guy's wearing an obsidian-black cloak that shadows most of his face, though I think I see a flash of auburn hair. In his hand is a scythe almost as tall as he is, the sharp tip gleaming silver. I can see his mouth, but I can't tell what he's thinking.

Diaval scowls, turning slightly away from me. "Why do you always have to interrupt?"

"If we didn't, it might already be too late," the angel replies. He turns to me and opens his mouth to speak- then abruptly closes it. His face starts to redden. "W-why are you…"

What? I glance down. Oh. That's right. Still in my underwear. I guess it makes sense that an angel would be a prude. "I can put on some clothes," I offer. "If I'd known I'd be having company…"

He looks relieved. "Yes, do that. Please."

Diaval scoffs. "She can stay like this. What's the big deal? It's not her fault it's effing hot in here."

"You just want an excuse to look at her body." The angel's nose wrinkles.

"And you're just too damn much of a prude."

That's the last I hear of their argument before I shut myself in the bathroom to change.

When I come back out, they're still going at it. The guy in the cloak isn't saying anything, just standing there like a statue.

I cough. "I'm back."

That shuts them up. They all turn towards me, even Scythe Guy.

"I suppose we should explain ourselves," the angel says. "My name is Latis. As you might have guessed, I'm an angel."

"An angel," I repeat, nodding. Again, this is too weird for me to act in any way but normal.

Scythe Guy finally opens his mouth. "Ruvel," he says. It takes me a second to realize this must be his name. "I'm a reaper."

Like the Grim Reaper, I guess. "Okay," I say. "So… why are you all here?"

Diaval answers me. "You're gonna die in a month from now." He says it so casually, like he's talking about the weather.

My body stiffens. There's a light buzzing in my ears all of a sudden. I try to speak, but no words make it past my lips.

One month?

"We can't tell you how it's going to happen," Latis continues, just as calmly. "Otherwise you might try to stop it, and if you succeeded… our jobs could be on the line."

"Jobs?" I croak.

This time it's Ruvel who answers. "Taking souls."

I think it's finally getting to me. The idea that I only have one month left to live… only one month to try and accomplish something meaningful on this earth…

"Naomi." Latis's firm voice snaps me back to reality. "You should know that we don't come for everyone who's about to die. Not in person, anyway. There are two kinds of souls that are special cases, two kinds of souls that we need to appear in person to collect. The first kind is souls that are unusually pure."

I worked as a stripper to help pay for art school. I've had sex (just once, but still). On hot days, I like to lie around at home in my underwear with the fan on full blast. "What's the second kind?" I ask.

Diaval looks right at me, and for a moment, despite everything, I can't breathe. The smile he gives me now is surprisingly kind. "Souls with a creative spark," he says softly.

"Artists, writers… even some scientists," Latis continues, his voice also quieter than it was a second ago. "Creativity is as highly valued among souls as purity."

"You're special," Diaval clarifies, still with that oddly gentle smile. "You should feel proud."

Proud? I don't know if I feel anything other than the gnawing dread in my stomach, the pressure of a solid deadline. Only one month…

"We should go," Ruvel says.

Latis looks at the clock radio on my nightstand and frowns. "You're right. We need to leave. That goes for you as well, Diaval."

"Yeah, yeah." Diaval makes a face, his crimson eyes still penetrating into me. "Just give me a minute."

Latis levels a fierce glare upon him. "Don't do anything you shouldn't."

"I know, I know." He rolls his eyes, like he's been given this lecture a million times before.

With that, the angel and the reaper disappear. I blink. They just… vanished somehow. Maybe I am hallucinating.

Diaval hasn't removed his eyes from me for a second. I swallow as he approaches me, slow and soft. "No one's ever hit me when I tried that before," he says quietly. "And before that, I could have sworn you…" His smooth voice trails off. "It surprised me," he finally says.

I can't be bothered to process my feelings towards him right now. All I know is that he makes my heart beat triple time in my chest and my skin tingle… and yet when he was going to kiss me, I panicked. I don't know how much I can trust him. "I said I was sorry." My voice rings hollow.

His eyes widen. "You've got it wrong. I'm not looking for an apology." He finally comes to a stop a foot in front of me. "I just think it's interesting," he says softly, crooked smile tugging at his lips. "You're… interesting."

Suddenly, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. His heat envelopes me, catching my breath. Up close, I see that he has surprisingly long eyelashes.

How long has it been since someone's held me like this?

What a stupid question, when I know exactly how long.

Again, there it is: the panic bubbling up inside of me. My heart is galloping from fear and excitement and wanting- but I don't know what I want. I want him to let me go and leave and never come back, and I want him to kiss me hard and hungry and touch me everywhere-

"Naomi," he whispers, carefully watching my face.

My heart twists in my chest. I turn away, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.

I feel something softly brush against my cheek. My skin prickles. "I'm sorry," he whispers in my ear.

What?

I whip my head towards him. There's something strangely tender in the way he's looking at me, something almost vulnerable exposed in his eyes. His smile looks… softer somehow.

I blink, and the look is gone. Maybe I imagined it.

Before I can pull away, Diaval kisses my other cheek and then steps back with a grin. "I'll be back, babe." And just like that, he's gone.

"God…" My voice cracks in the empty apartment. I fall to my knees. My body starts shaking uncontrollably.

 _Only a month left…_

 _Please leave a review! I want to know what you think._


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up with the sense that something bizarre just happened, though it's not coming to mind right now.

Tigerlily calmly grooms her calico fur at the foot of my bed. Slowly, I reach out to pet her, feeling her small body vibrate with her motorboat purr.

It all suddenly hits me like a semi at full speed. _You're gonna die in a month._ Diaval with his crooked grin and beautiful crimson eyes. Latis's kind face. Ruvel's scythe. In the back of my head, I know it wasn't a dream. I remember it too vividly for that.

Feeling like a robot, I get out of bed and grab some clothes from my closet, barely even glancing at them. The steaming water from the shower helps relax my muscles somewhat, though not nearly enough. I stand in front of my mirror and stare at my reflection without really seeing anything.

A month. That's enough time to make _something_ , maybe even something that could make a difference. In theory. I've had to complete projects in less time than that for art school.

But if it's going to be my last painting ever…

I sigh and head to the kitchen. I'll eat some breakfast and then decide what to do.

I was planning to go to New Horizons today. It's this little gallery two blocks down where a few of my paintings are displayed, and a couple have been sold. My friend Rachel just donated a collection of photographs, and I wanted to stop by and see them.

Maybe I could still do that. It might be a good way to get inspired to paint again.

As I'm pouring myself some cereal, a voice suddenly comes from behind me. "You're finally up. Good, I was waiting for you."

I spin around towards the living room. Diaval is lying on my couch in the same robe from yesterday, his bright blue hair mussed like he's been lying there for a while. He smiles lazily at me as if his being here is the most natural thing in the world.

I cautiously step closer. His wings and horns are gone now; he could pass for human like this. Blue hair and red eyes can be explained away by hair dye and color contacts, and although most people don't walk around in silky red shoulder-baring robes, he wouldn't be the first person in New York with unusual fashion sense. "What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Said I'd be back, didn't I?" He stretches lean but toned arms over his head.

"Right, and I'm sure a demon always keeps his promises."

He laughs. "So got any plans for today?"

I turn away, unable to bear looking at that enchanting smile any longer. "Actually, yes. I'm going to an art gallery to see my friend's work."

"Great. I'll come with."

I stop. Is he serious?

Arms suddenly embrace me from behind, closing around my waist. Again, I feel the pleasure-fear rising inside me. "That's not a problem, is it?" that buttery voice whispers in my ear.

"N-no." I swallow. I can feel the blood rushing to my face.

"Good." Diaval gently squeezes my waist—then withdraws again.

Fifteen minutes later, we leave my apartment and start walking to the gallery. Thankfully, the weather is cooler than yesterday, and a light breeze teases our hair as we walk. Diaval curls an arm around my shoulders, but I shrug it off. He scowls like a sullen kid, but I try to ignore it.

When we're about halfway there, I notice a familiar figure up ahead, sipping a cup of coffee at one of the black metal tables outside a Starbucks. With her flamingo-pink pixie cut, nose stud, and tattoo of a unicorn puking a rainbow on her right arm, Rachel doesn't exactly blend into the crowd. She looks up, and her face brightens with a smile when she sees me. Then her eyes flicker to Diaval—and widen. I can't help but cringe. Great, now I'll need to fumble for some kind of explanation.

She comes up to us, coffee in hand. "So who's this, Naomi?"

Diaval's looking at me with his mouth quirked up in a grin. I guess that means I have to make the introduction. "Rachel, this is Diaval. Diaval, Rachel."

Rachel looks at him for a few seconds, then turns to me and stage-whispers, " _Is he a foreign model?"_

My face flushes. "He can hear you," I say quietly.

" _I know."_ She pulls back and smiles at Diaval. Thankfully, he just looks amused. "So where are you guys going?"

"New Horizons."

"Cool. I'll leave you to it, then. Don't want to interrupt anything." She heads back to her table before I can correct her.

Diaval and I continue walking in silence. I sneak a glance at him. He does look kind of like a foreign model. With that perfect caramel skin…

"Why are you staring at me?" he asks.

I quickly look away. "Sorry."

He chuckles, then leans in and whispers smoothly into my ear, "I think I know why." My body gives a shudder in response. He suddenly nibbles my earlobe and tugs at it with his teeth. It's the weirdest thing he's done so far, but the touch still sends a jolt through me.

I jerk away from him, fighting to control my pulse. Is he trying to give me a heart attack?

He smirks as he draws back, a twist of his lips. "Did you like that?"

My face feels hot. "Do you want me to slap you again?" My voice comes out shriller than I intended.

His face shifts into a scowl. "Tch, you're no fun." He doesn't say anything for a few moments, and then, just when I'm starting to relax again, suddenly turns his scarlet gaze upon me. My breath catches. "Hey, so you're an artist, right?"

I lift a shoulder. "Yeah."

"Is any of your stuff at this gallery?"

"Some of it." I'm a little surprised by his sudden interest in my work. I guess it's flattering in a way, but it also seems… odd coming from him.

Kind of like when he whispered he was sorry yesterday and looked at me with that tender smile.

Finally, we push open the glass doors of the gallery and step into the clean, peaceful place. I inhale the familiar rich smell coming from the coffeemaker in the corner, left out conveniently for any visitors. Piano music plays softly in the background. I love the warm, inviting atmosphere of New Horizons, the way it feels more like some eccentric old lady's private collection than some of the other cold, professional galleries in the city. All kinds of art are featured here: paintings, photographs, clay sculptures; portraits, landscapes, art that can only be referred to as "abstract". The gallery owner, a red-haired woman in her mid-forties who's always told me to just call her Ella, smiles at us as we walk in.

"Nice place," Diaval says as I head over to the coffeemaker.

I nod, pouring myself a Styrofoam cup and fixing it up with no milk, two sugars—just the way I like it. "Yeah."

He eyes the coffee curiously, like it's something totally foreign to him. Maybe they don't have coffee in hell. "Is that stuff any good?"

I think of the first time I tried coffee, the way I scrunched up my face like I was drinking battery acid. "It's… pretty bitter."

His lips curl upwards. "I'll try it." He suddenly reaches around me, his tall, lean body pressing briefly against mine, and grabs my coffee, taking a long, slow sip. I wince in anticipation, keeping my eyes locked on his face. He doesn't react like I expected him to, though. Instead, his mouth stretches further into a broad, crooked grin. "Not bad."

My eyes widen.

Diaval laughs quietly as he sets the cup back down. "I like bitter things."

I decide not to question his tastes as I pour a second cup of coffee for him. "Here you go."

"Thanks, babe."

Again with the "babe". "Naomi," I tell him. "My name is _Naomi_. Naomi Parker."

He just laughs and wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me close to the heat of his body. I shiver—and then rapidly pull away, ducking to try to hide the blush I can feel spreading over my cheeks. "So where's your friend's work?" he asks, apparently unbothered.

"I don't know." The bitter sweetness of the coffee warms my throat, but it doesn't do much to calm my racing heartbeat. "Let's go look for it."

I walk down the rows, drinking in the colors and forms of the pictures surrounding me. My eyes trace greedily over brushstrokes and the fine topography of shadows and light. There's something engrossing about looking at art, something almost addictive about getting lost in a visual world. Some people say they get lost in books, that reading teleports them to strange worlds. I don't have anything against books, but I feel that way about art—especially drawings and paintings. That's why I decided I wanted to be an artist.

At last I find an unfamiliar set of photographs that clearly were taken by Rachel. A pigeon raises its wings as it grooms its chest, an awkwardly tender moment. A teenager with mint-green headphones stands sullenly in the corner of a glass elevator, arms crossed defensively over her chest like she wants to melt into the floor. From a bird's-eye view, even the contents of a garbage can look oddly beautiful, a gritty kaleidoscope of artificially vibrant colors.

I suddenly realize Diaval isn't at my side anymore. I twist my neck—and find him standing in front of a tall painting in a corner, his head tilted ever-so-slightly. His side profile is softer than usual, long eyelashes flickering as he blinks slowly.

I know what painting he's looking at even before I get close enough to see for myself.

A young woman stands alone in a shadowed room. Her head is turned to the side, looking out the window; her face is hard to read. The sunlight illuminates streaks of gold in her honey-blonde hair, pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and it gives her face a tangerine glow. She's topless, exposing small breasts and a tattoo of a monarch butterfly on her right shoulder. Her hands are in an unusual position: one curls under her flat belly as if cupping a handful of water, while the other is clenched into a hard fist at her side. The light peach glow darkens into a rich indigo descending on the body.

The title card on the wall below it reads, "Self-Portrait by Naomi Parker."

The hair on the back of my neck prickles, watching Diaval study my painting. He saw me in my underwear, but somehow this seems much more personal, more intimate—and not just because I'm topless in the picture. I swallow hard before walking slowly up to him. "Let's go."

He turns to me, his lips parted slightly. After a second, he shrugs, breaking into a grin again. "Sure."

I'm leading him to the door when Ella calls my name. "Naomi."

"Yeah?"

"Come over here for a minute."

Glancing at Diaval, I obey.

Ella slides a sheet of paper across the desk to me. "Annual Portrait Contest" sprawls across the top in capital letters. The deadline is three weeks from now. My heart leaps.

"Saw this and thought of you," Ella says with a smile. I nod, feeling the corners of my lips twitch upwards unbidden. "It doesn't look like you'll be able to enter that self-portrait of yours, though."

I stop. My pulse pounds hard and ominous in my ears. "What?"

She shoots me a sympathetic look. "You already won the blue ribbon in that one contest with it, didn't you?" One turquoise-painted fingernail taps the paper. In bold text, it says, _Submissions must be pieces that have not yet won any other "contests" or other forms of competition against other pieces of art._

I heave a sigh. So much for that idea.

Diaval leans in to my ear and murmurs, "Deadline's in less than a month."

He's right. And three weeks is enough time to paint something decent. It's not ideal, but…

"All right," I say, taking the paper and folding it into the pocket of my indigo jeans. Ella beams, and I smile as well.

Diaval looks at me as we leave, his crimson eyes glittering like rubies in the sunlight. "Any ideas what you want to draw?"

"It's a portrait contest, so the more appropriate question would be _who_ I want to draw," I mutter, taking a sip of coffee.

We're silent for a minute, our shoes slapping the sidewalk. The morning traffic is starting, though it's not in full swing yet; a few cars zip by on the street.

"Looking for a model?" he asks suddenly, flashing me that crooked grin.

I blink rapidly a few times. It takes a moment for his words to sink in. "Are you offering?"

Diaval's grin widens. "Don't tell me you've gotten a better offer."

"I just heard about this contest. Of course I don't have any other offers yet."

"Glad we're on the same page."

I sip my coffee, shooting him a glance. It's true, one of the first thoughts I had when I saw him was that he would make a fantastic painting. But it's one thing to think that when you look at someone for the first time and another to actually paint him. Besides… "Don't you have better things to do than hang around me all the time?"

He laughs. "Are you kidding? You're my top priority right now, babe." He tries to kiss my cheek, but I yank away at the last second, my face burning.

"My name's Naomi," I say, even though I have a feeling it won't make a difference.

He just smirks at me, eyes sparkling. "You only have three weeks to paint this thing," he goes on, returning to the topic from before. "Do you really want to waste any time looking for a better model?"

He has a point, there. I hate to admit it, but he does.

"Come on," he coaxes, leaning in close to my ear so his hot breath tickles my skin. "You know you want to."

My body gives a shudder, but I swat him away. "I'll consider it, how about that?"

Diaval scowls—but slowly, his mouth twitches back into a smile. "Guess that's good enough for now." He pauses. "Hey, about that self-portrait…"

My body stiffens. I almost forgot he saw that. I hold my breath, waiting to hear what he'll say next.

Then he looks at me with that aggravating grin of his, that stupid grin that makes my heart pound faster, and I get an uneasy feeling in my chest. I don't know what I'll do if he says something stupid. "I thought it was pretty good," he says.

I exhale slowly, my tension dissipating. "Really?"

His eyes crinkle with the smile he gives me. "Yeah."

For a second I thought he was going to be a jerk, but maybe not.

"You should take your shirt off more often."

I spin towards him. He just laughs and pecks my cheek. "You've got a great body," he murmurs, lingering before pulling back.

And just when I was starting to change my mind about him…

"Want any lunch?"

Diaval looks over from where he's lounging catlike on the couch. "Nah, I'm good."

I pause in the process of opening up the Chinese leftovers. "Are you sure?"

"I'm a demon. We don't need to eat."

I guess that makes sense, but… "There's too much for me to eat on my own. And I'm worried they'll go bad if I leave them another day."

He cocks his head to the side—then slowly gets up, rolling his shoulders back. "In that case, I'll have some. Make your life a little easier."

"Thanks." I fix him a plate with a little bit of everything and stick it in the microwave for a minute.

"Don't cook much, do you?" he observes, sliding into a seat at the kitchen table. He rests his chin in his hands as he watches me with those lazy eyes.

I shrug. "Occasionally I'll make something for dinner. Nothing too fancy, though." It seems a little odd talking to a demon about my eating habits, but he somehow seems more approachable in this form, without the horns and wings. It makes the whole experience feel less surreal.

"Did you decide who you're going to use as a model yet?" he asks as I bring the plates over. He looks like he's fighting back a smile.

"You mean you were serious about your offer?" I can't help but raise my eyebrows at that.

He looks slightly offended. "'Course I was serious."

I sigh. "I haven't thought of anyone yet," I grudgingly admit. "Other than Rachel, but she's busy this week, and I want to get started ASAP."

Diaval grins broadly.

"But that doesn't mean you're getting the job. I could always do another self-portrait, you know."

His face shifts into a scowl. "Don't be like that."

I have to admit, some small part of me takes pleasure in taunting him like this. Maybe I do have a sadistic side after all. "Why not?" I ask, as innocently as possible. "What's wrong with that idea?"

"Come on." He makes an irritated noise from the back of his throat. "Do you really think you can make something anywhere near as good as your first self-portrait in only three weeks? After a painting like _that_ , how could you be satisfied with any other self-portrait you tried to make?"

His words make me pause. "So you did think it was good, then?"

To my surprise, a flush starts to creep up his cheeks. Diaval shoots a glance at me, then looks away again. "Maybe."

A laugh bubbles up in my throat. "And not just because I was topless?"

His blush deepens. "I liked it, okay? Jeez, what more do you want from me?"

I grin at him. "Nothing."

He's quiet for a second. "I could tell how much that painting meant to you," he finally says. His voice is unusually tender. "How much feeling you put into it. A lot of the pieces there… I felt like the people who made them were just trying to show off their skills or whatever. But that self-portrait… It obviously wasn't something you were just doing for the hell of it."

There's a moment of silence. "You're right," I say quietly.

Diaval takes a deep breath, then looks right at me. The kindness from before is back in his expression. "That creative spark in your soul… is the brightest I've seen in a long time." He gets up from his chair to wrap his arms gently around my waist, slow and tentative, like he's worried I'll push him off again. But I let him hug me, breathing in his sweet-bitter smell of burnt sugar, relaxing into the warmth of his body. I don't know why, but… I'm just not feeling that surge of panic I did before, that sense telling me I have to get away. "If you want, you can make another self-portrait," he whispers.

My heart pounds like a constant drumbeat in my ears. I turn my face slowly to look into those crimson eyes, hovering an inch from my own. "Actually…" My voice rasps. It's hard to focus this close to him, watching his long eyelashes flutter down, casting shadows over his angular cheekbones. I swallow. "If you really were serious about your offer… I wouldn't mind… drawing you." Silence hangs between us. "I want to, I mean."

His eyes widen for a second, and then that familiar crooked grin creeps onto his face.

 _Hope you liked Chapter 2. More are on the way, I promise~_


End file.
